


My Dear Watson

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, I guess this is an AU now, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, epistolary fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-07 19:02:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for a prompt on the BBC Sherlock meme: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?thread=129155590#t129155590</p><p>While going through some of Sherlock's things, John finds love letters Sherlock has written for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“John?”

"Hello. Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh, John.” Mrs. Hudson reached out, one hand clutching her shawl, and touched John’s hand briefly.

John cleared his throat. “How are you?”

“Well, you know. It’s terribly quiet around here. And you?”

“Yeah, fine, yeah.” He cleared his throat again, and looked away. “I thought I’d come by and maybe start….” He trailed off, gesturing at the ceiling. “Clearing up a bit.” As if it had been a spur of the moment decision. As if he hadn’t been meaning to do this for months, but been unable to work up the courage to face 221B again.

“Of course,” Mrs. Hudson said, twisting her hands together. “It’s just as you left it. I haven’t been up to dust since…. Well, for the last five months, so it might be a bit stuffy.”

“Right,” John said. “Right. Thanks.”

“You don’t want a cuppa before you start?”

“No, thank you, I think I’d better just….”

“All right. Oh, John.” She reached out to him again, briefly, before withdrawing her hand with a sympathetic expression. “You tell me if you need anything.”

John nodded. “Thanks.”

 

The flat was, indeed, exactly as they’d left it. After months of distancing himself from everything but his memories, the scene was nearly too much for John. Sherlock was there in the violin lying forlornly on the table, in the piles of books, in the lab equipment still cluttering up the kitchen. The place even smelled like him still.

John walked through it all, slowly, stirring up clouds of dust as he went. The silence weighed on him. He kept seeing Sherlock out of the corner of his eye—bent over a microscope, lounging on the sofa, thinking in the armchair. Whirling around the flat, his mind going a mile a minute. John felt his eyes prickle, and stopped, looking down and breathing deeply until he’d fought back the tears.

The door to Sherlock’s bedroom caught his eye. It was closed, and John wondered whether anyone had been in there since Sherlock had vacated it. Mycroft, possibly. John wasn’t sure. He’d been unable to really process anything anyone was telling him after Sherlock fell. It was so much easier to just tune them out, nodding and smiling blankly until they left him alone.

He pushed the door open cautiously, not sure what to expect. At first it looked as though Sherlock’s room was perfectly clean—no textbooks littered the floor, no clothes still lay scattered about. But as John stepped further inside, he saw that most of the mess that tended to follow Sherlock everywhere had simply been pushed to the side. There were neatly stacked books in every corner and reams of paper had been thrown into cardboard boxes that lined the walls. It looked as though someone had hastily tried to tidy up, and John’s hand clenched as he pictured Sherlock taking a moment to clean before heading to his death. John wondered if he’d already known how it was going to end. If he’d already wanted to end his own life, and John hadn’t been paying enough attention to notice. Seeing, but not observing.

He was going to carry that guilt for as long as he lived.

John knelt down beside the boxes at the edge of the room and peered into one. It was full of what looked like resumes in multiple languages, indecipherable to John without Sherlock at hand to provide an explanation. Still, he rifled through them, thinking about Sherlock reading these same words and the lightning-fast connections his mind would have made. It had always been beautiful, watching him leap from conclusion to conclusion. The way Sherlock’s mind worked was something John would never understand. One of many questions he would never know the answer to.

There was a teetering, dust-covered pile of books to his right, and John began to go through them, lifting them up gingerly and blowing the dust off. Sherlock had made annotations in the margins of some of them, and John put those aside to look at more carefully. Anything that held traces of Sherlock Holmes was precious now.

The last book in the pile, an ancient, German tome that appeared to have something to do with chemistry, caught John’s attention when he reached it. The cover was ragged around the edges, and it was softer than the others, as though it had been handled a lot. It was also incredibly thick. John flipped it open, curious as to why this particular book would have interested Sherlock more than his other chemistry textbooks.

What greeted him was not a dense wall of text. John frowned down in surprise at the square hole that had been carved out of the pages, in which was nestled a pile of folded pieces of paper. They ranged from torn notebook paper to heavy stationary and varied in size, but all were carefully folded in half and pressed into the cavity. The weight of the top half of the book had been holding them down, so that when John opened it, some of the papers had sprung out and drifted to the floor. He gathered them up, gently replacing them inside the book, and unfolded one carefully.

Sherlock’s handwriting was immediately recognizable, but that wasn’t what caused John to take a small, startled breath. It was his own name, written at the top in thin, slanting letters. John leaned back against the side of the bed and began to read, his heart pounding. 

_John,_

_It’s difficult. Watching you defend me. Moriarty is clever, thrillingly clever, but when his game threatens the strength of your loyalty, it loses its appeal. I would give nearly anything to keep you believing in me as steadfastly as you do. It keeps me going. If only you knew how much I depend upon you, John Watson._

_But then, of course, I would lose you, and that is unthinkable._

_Moriarty. I am afraid, John. Fear has gotten the better of me once again, and it’s entirely your fault. Well, I suppose I must take some of the blame for allowing myself to fall into this haze of sentiment. But it’s you who slipped into my life and past all my defenses without my even realizing it, and Moriarty knows. He knows what you don’t know, what you’ll never know because you don’t observe what’s right in front of you and because I know how to hide things. That is what scares me. It’s terribly pedestrian, but irrefutably true. I am afraid for you, John. I’m afraid that Moriarty will use you the way he did before, because he knows, and he knows that you don’t know, and it amuses him to no end. With men like Moriarty, men like me, the last thing you want is to be entertaining._

_You are currently asleep. I can’t sleep, partly because I am on a case and have no desire to sleep, but also because I must ensure that no harm comes to you in the night. It is frankly ridiculous. You would be proud if you had any idea of the depth to which I am capable of caring for another human being. I suppose you do know, at least more than other people. Part of your inexplicable faith in me._

_I love you. I love you, John. I have to say it here because I can’t say it out loud and I can’t not say it. I love you and I hate it. Right now, I hate it. Sometimes, when it’s just the two of us and you look at me like I’m something incredible, I don’t hate it. Even if I wished you loved me back._

_Pathetic. I am pathetic, and I am afraid, and now I must return to plotting against Moriarty. I can only guarantee that if he lays a finger on you again, I will be glad to live up to my reputation as a psychopath._

_Love,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

John let the letter fall from his fingertips, afraid that the force of his grip would damage the paper. His heart was in his throat. That couldn’t have meant what he thought it meant. It didn’t seem real. He had just read what appeared to be a _love letter_ from Sherlock Holmes. A love letter addressed to him.

John had long ago come to terms with his own feelings regarding his flatmate, and had pushed them away, understanding that there was no chance. Sherlock was cold, uninterested, untouchable, unattainable. And now it turned out that Sherlock had felt all this for him.

A sudden burst of anger tore through him, and he punched the wall, hard. Sherlock had thrown himself off a building, clearly not long after writing this letter, and John had never known that they could have been more. Being with Sherlock had been brilliant, but there was so much, _so much_ they had left to do. Clearly more than John could ever have guessed. It was a side to Sherlock that John would never have imagined, at least not directed towards him. Irene, perhaps, but not him. And yet this letter was written in handwriting that John would recognize anywhere. Sherlock had loved him. Sherlock had been _in love_ with him.

“ _Fuck,”_ John whispered to himself, and let the tears fall.


	2. Chapter 2

It was half an hour before John descended the stairs once again, clutching the hollow book. He’d taken a few minutes get a hold of himself and stop the tears trickling down his face, and then had flipped open the other letters one by one, just long enough to check the addressee. _John,_ most of them said, but there was also _Dear John, John Watson,_ and even _My Dear John_. Some were long, but some consisted of only a paragraph or two. He’d been tempted to read them all right there, but stopped himself. Sherlock’s bedroom in an eerily silent 221B was not an environment in which he could read these letters without dissolving into a puddle of grief. It was all so much at once, and John wanted to be able to focus. So he’d gathered up the book and left Sherlock’s room, giving it one last glance before shutting the door carefully.

Mrs. Hudson poked her head out of the door as John came down the stairs.

“John?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. It will take me a while to get through it all.”

“Oh, of course.” Her eyes settled on the book in his hands. “Did you find something interesting?” She asked, stepping out into the hallway.

“Er, yes. I just.” John trailed off, looking down at the book. It all felt so surreal. He wasn’t entirely convinced that this wasn’t just some dream his subconscious had conjured up.

Mrs. Hudson’s hand brushed lightly against his arm. “He loved you very much, you know.”

John froze. He’d always assumed Mrs. Hudson’s insinuations about their relationship had been baseless, or possibly the result of John’s feelings for Sherlock showing through a bit too much. But what if she had known, all this time?

“Did he?” John asked carefully, not meeting her eyes. 

“Of course he did, John. He’d have done anything for you, you know that.” She sighed. “Oh, you boys were so _silly_.”

John nodded, his mouth dry. “Yeah,” he croaked. He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Well, thanks, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll…..I’ll be by again soon.”

“Of course, dear.” She patted his arm. “You take care of yourself. He wouldn’t have wanted you to be unhappy.”

John’s hand spasmed at his side and he nodded. “You too.”

 

Back at his own small flat, John made himself a cup of tea and sank down on the sofa. His hands were steady as he opened the book and let the letters spill out onto the cushions. There was something so Sherlockian about the unruly jumble, something about the juxtaposition of elegant parchment with scraps of old sheet music, all springing forth in an untidy pile that made John’s heart ache. The silence pressed in on him, so he reached for the remote and flicked the TV on, keeping the noise just at a background level as he began to sort through the notes

Half a cup of tea later, John had managed to organize the letters by date. It had been difficult to stop himself from letting his eyes travel down each piece of paper farther than the date scribbled at the top, but he wanted to read them in order. This was a side of their story he hadn’t heard. Hadn’t ever bothered to hope could exist. He needed, desperately, to understand.

The first letter was dated to not long after they’d moved in together, around the time they’d taken the case with that prick Sebastian and John had started seeing Sarah. It seemed like such a distant past, and yet the details were fresh in John’s mind. He breathed out slowly and began to read 

_Dear John,_

_I don’t know why I’m doing this. It’s ridiculous. It’s not as though you are ever going to read this. It is a completely illogical exercise and I cannot believe I have been driven to it, but nothing else is helping me solve this problem and it is imperative that I do solve this problem as soon as possible._

_This is an area in which I would normally defer to your expertise, but in this case that would be extremely dangerous. So I’m writing a fake letter to you. Preposterous, but apparently necessary._

_I think there’s something wrong with me. I think—I fear I may have grown overly fond of you. I don’t know what to do about it. When you come home, my day improves drastically. I like having you with me. I dislike it when you are away. I find myself dreading the day when you leave me for a dull, happy life with a wife and 2.5 children._

_I find myself irrationally jealous of your future wife. I am, in fact, jealous of every woman you date. Or look at._

_I want to touch you. Sometimes I can’t help it. I think you’ve dismissed it as a general disregard for personal space. But I want more than fleeting touches, John; I want to run my hands over your skin and press my face against your neck and hold onto you. I see you smile at me and I want to wrap you in my arms and refuse to let go._

_You lick your lips a lot. It makes me want to kiss them. Many things that seemed pointless to me before now sound terribly appealing._

_I don’t know how to stop it. The attraction I could deal with, if that was all it was. It’s just another base desire of human flesh, like food and sleep. I am not a slave to my transport, John, no matter how many times you try to convince me that I am. But this is too strong for me. It’s always there, some cocktail of chemicals in the brain that makes me want to keep you safe and make you happy and crawl into your arms. Even your tea tastes better to me than anyone else’s._

_Caring is not an advantage. I cannot afford to be so attached to you, John. You aren’t gay, and even if you were, I would be the last person you would want to spend your life with. I know this, and I know it’s better for you to date these boring women, and yet it still hurts._

_This has not been at all helpful. I am in exactly the same position as I was when I started writing this idiotic letter. I won’t be attempting this again._

_Sherlock Holmes_


	3. Chapter 3

John tried to process what he’d read as he made himself another cup of tea, his heart beating uncomfortably fast in his chest as he thought about Sherlock’s words. _I want to touch you._ Christ, if John had known…. He fought down another wave of frustration. It felt wrong, so wrong, that the world had deprived itself of Sherlock Holmes. That Sherlock had deprived _John_ of Sherlock Holmes. There were times when John’s anger with Sherlock for jumping off that roof rivaled even his anger with himself. But inevitably the gaping emptiness that followed him everywhere these days swallowed that too, leaving him feeling blank and hollow once again.

Why had Sherlock never said anything? John found it difficult to believe that Sherlock, who could see through everyone, hadn’t realized that John had been interested. He’d even turned John down, that first night, when John hadn’t even been aware that he was flirting with the enigmatic stranger across from him. Sherlock must have known he could have lured John to bed with a single word, and yet he hadn’t. Why?

John carried his tea back to the sofa and sat down with a sigh, picking up the next letter and hoping that somewhere in the pile were the answers he was looking for.

_John,_

_I said I wasn’t going to do this again, but I feel that I must put these words somewhere to prevent them from tumbling out of my mouth whenever you look at me. I’ve already tried turning them to music, but I can’t play it when you are home because even you would be able to translate the notes. You would hear how I ache for you, and you would pity me, and you would leave, leaking out of my life like blood from a fatal wound._

_Do you see what you are doing to me? You have me speaking in metaphors, John. However, it is an apt one, I must say. It would kill me, eventually, if you left me now. I have no doubt of that. I cannot imagine going back to the way I was before you._

_Sebastian’s case is solved, as far as he is concerned. The smuggling ring is still out there, but that is a job for someone else. They kidnapped you. I panicked, John, when I saw that yellow spray paint. I have not felt that degree of terror in a very long time. You are safe now, but it occurs to me that there is nothing I would not do to bring you back from danger, which is a startling revelation and I’m not entirely sure what to do about it. I suppose I will simply have to accept that this is the way things are now. You appear to have become the most important thing to me. It will take some getting used to._

_I like your striped jumper._

_Sherlock Holmes_

For some reason, the last line was the one that hit John like a bullet to the heart. He squeezed his eyes shut and thought about Sherlock sitting across from him, tried to imagine him having any sort of affection for something so dull as John’s _jumpers_. Then John thought of Sherlock smiling, not his fake smile but the one that always lit up his face, and blinked his eyes open again as he realized that that smile had always been just for him. Feeling as though his heart had turned to ice, John reached for the next letter.

_Dear John,_

_I walked in on you in the shower this morning. You didn’t notice, which is a blessing because if you had I’m not sure I would have had the time to school my expression into something acceptable for a flatmate and not a….whatever I am. Whatever it is I want to be. You were turned away, and I backed out and shut the door quickly. I didn’t want to, John. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay and admire the way the water trickled over your shoulders and the muscles in your arms, down your back and further. I even saw the front of you, a little bit—your eyes were closed, squeezed shut to prevent any of your shampoo from getting in—and I…. John. I don’t know what to do. I’ve always had control over my transport, always, and now you are throwing it out of balance. I’ve never wanted like this before. I’ve never wanted to be close to anyone like this before, to let anyone have that level of power over me. But I want you. I want to be able to feel nothing but you. I want you to drive out every thought in my head, like morphine._

_I should burn these letters._

_Sherlock Holmes_

**Author's Note:**

> More to come! Comments appreciated, as always. Thanks for reading!


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